When A Breakup Isn't A Breakup
by invisalite
Summary: Shawn's new best friend is that bottle of vodka. One-sided Shassie, angst, slash-ish. Don't like, don't read. I don't own anything but my storyline.


**A/N: Sorry about the long time for updating Ten Reasons! I haven't had time at all to write anything, but this one just floated into my head and needed to get down. It's more one-sided Shassie and rather angsty, but feel free to tack on happy endings as you feel appropriate. As usual, please review, and concrit is VERY welcome. **

**Not beta'ed, so all errors are my own. Also, I feel Shawn is a little OOC, but maybe that's because I injected too much me into him. **

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing except maybe the plot.**

**EDITS A/N: I realize that the amount of vodka Shawn has is kind of godly. Let's just pretend it's super diluted with stuff. Or that he has a super high tolerance level.**

* * *

Shawn sat at the bar, downing his tenth glass of vodka. He shuddered as he felt the liquid blaze down his throat, but he couldn't stop. Because of a certain head detective, he couldn't stop.

The fake psychic could feel his fists clench in rage, but the fury soon subsided.

_Who are you kidding? You wouldn't be able to hold a grudge against him. Especially since…_

He waved at the bartender for another glass.

How was he getting home? More importantly, why was he here again?

Oh. Yeah. Heartbreak.

_A few hours earlier…_

"Spencer? Are you alright?"

Shawn jerked upwards, his eyes locking with icy blue ones.

"Uh… yeah, Lassie, I'm just peachy!" he managed to smile. The younger man fought the urge to blush. "Why?"

"Well… you've been kinda quiet lately and I thought that something might be wrong."

"Nah, I'm just… tired."

The head detective eyed him warily.

"I remember that you told me that whenever you say you're tired, you're lying."

The pen he was playing with nearly fell out of his hands. The fake psychic looked back up at Carlton with a hint of alarm in his eyes.

"Um… well, uh…"

"Spencer—Shawn, spit it out."

Shawn sat in relative silence, twiddling his fingers and scuffing his shoes across the floor of the precinct awkwardly. Thankfully, it was late and only the two men were left in the building. But, unfortunately that meant no distractions for the fake psychic to use to get away from the serious conversation.

"Spencer… I haven't got all night you know! If you're not gonna say anything then I'm going home."

Lassiter stood up, swung his jacket around his shoulders, and began to stomp out of the building before being stopped by a small, mumbled, "Wait." He whirled around.

"What?"

"I- uh… I…"

"I'm going home if you can't say anything Spencer."

"I like you and that's why I'm being quiet around you because I know that I annoy you when I talk and I really like you and I don't know why and—and… I really am glad that you've been looking out for me and asking if I've been okay and all, and… and… I really like you."

The head detective's mouth dropped for a moment.

"You… you're kidding right?"

The hurt that was evident on Shawn's face made it clear that no, he was not kidding. Not in the slightest.

"Well… um… Spen—Shawn. I uh… I…"

That was when Shawn had bolted. He didn't want to hear the rest of what the detective had to say. He already knew it.

_I don't like you._

And that's what had led to the fake psychic drowning his sorrows in vodka. He knew that Carlton knew which bar he had went to. He had made it pretty obvious. So by drink twenty, when no stunning Irishman showed up, Shawn knew he was in for a rough night. The younger man had been hoping so much with the entirety of his being that there would be some chance that the head detective liked him too. Who would constantly ask if something was wrong if they didn't at least care about the person they were asking?

But that's all it had been. Making sure that everything was normal.

Drink 22, and the bartender is done making sure that Shawn can't order another one. The balding man locked up the vodka and pulled on his parka, getting ready to exit the building.

The fake psychic thanked the old man, grabbed his jacket, and slinked out of the establishment into the pouring rain. He hoped to see an unlicensed Crown Victoria somewhere in the haziness. But, as he expected, no familiar cars in sight. The fake psychic flagged down a taxi. This night was going to be as bad as a breakup.

_But,_ he reminded himself, _We were never even together. _


End file.
